Chronicles
by Skyen
Summary: The chronicle of the battle of the labyrinth beneath the cathedral of Tristram. It tells the story of three individuals, of their trials and pains in the crypts, catacombs, caves and hellish underground of Tristram, and of the inevitable confrontation tha


**Butcher**

A reek stench of blood and decay hung heavily in the humid air.

The walls and floors were moist and slippery, save for small areas around the few still-fluttering torches still alight in the catacombs of the Tristram cathedral.  
The silence was complete. Only the faint fizzling of the torches broke the still ether.

And then a shriek. A wail, long and inhuman as the tainted soul of a demonic Fallen One was forcefully carved from it's body.  
Soon followed the sound of steel upon steel, beasts roaring and the voice of a man, deep and handsome, but gruff.  
"Down! Back to the Hell you came from!"  
His voice was not, in fact, loud, but somehow it rose over the din of battle.

Minutes went by. The sounds grew fewer, though not fainter. Suddenly, with a clatter and a crunch, as though a hundred bones shattered upon the tiled, cracked floor, the sounds ceased.

Footsteps. Slowly and carefully, leathery boots, reinforced with metal, were approaching.  
Into the light of a solitary torch came a blade, stained in blood - sickened shades of blue and red - and then an arm. And swiftly, but quietly the Warrior.

Nobody knew his as anything but "The Warrior". He had given no name to the frightened townsfolk, all of whom (save perhaps the Healer) were glad to see him venture into "the Labyrinth". Their hopes rode on his shoulders.  
He seemed oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the fact. All he showed was a grimace of stern determination.

As he passed the torch, he wiped blood off his cheek. It was his own. He grumbled something inaudible, passed a finger over the cut and with a hissing sound, it closed. Out of the candle-light, the Warrior vanished into the shadows. He knew his quarry, and he was going to find him, even if all the demons of Hell should stand in his way.

And there, far up ahead, was a room in the middle of a room. Four walls with a solitary door. A door that was stained red, and blood flowed out from underneath it.  
The Warrior hesitated for a moment as he approached.  
Putting an ear to the door, he listened. He was met with the wet, bloody sound of meat being torn off a bone and swallowed.

"… Butcher…!" he breathed.

Making an odd gesture over his chest, well protected underneath a sturdy leather armour and a breastplate, he put a hand on the handle.

The sound of eating ceased. No element of surprise. Perhaps, at least, he could have the element of the first strike.

**_CRAASHAACK!_**

An axe tore through the solid door like a piece of paper.  
Jumping back, the Warrior levelled his sword and took a stance. On his left arm was a large, round shield, reinforced with slabs of metal.

He prayed it would be enough.

Bursting through the door like an angry bull came the Butcher. And a Butcher he looked. He wore a ragged, torn shirt, completely soaked in blood and blood was on his every limb and feature. His fat, bloated body was ripe with muscle under the pale, beige skin. Underneath thick lips was a grin stained in blood and an un-swallowed piece of flesh hang dangling from the fangs.

He was bald, and two small horns protruded above small, watery eyes. His crooked nose must have been broken at least thrice and on his elbows and knees were spiked bone sticking through the skin. A pure killing-machine.

"Haaaaaaarrrhhh! Fresh meat!" he half-laughed, half-growled.

The Warrior said nothing, only steeled himself and gritted his teeth.

With speed unfitting of such a large creature, the Butcher swung the weapon that truly gave him his name: a giant, rusted cleaver, glowing faintly red in the dark and thirsting for blood.

The Warrior didn't dodge. He didn't even move.  
The cleaver bore down on his shield like a boulder on a withered leaf.

**CRUNCH!**

The shield held. Barely. It would not take another blow. But the axe was now stuck in it.Pulling upwards with his shield-arm and rushing forward with a roar, the Warrior swung his blade directly at a stunned Butcher's throat. The Butcher, trying to hold on to his weapon, stumbled forwards. His tiny eyes widened as he saw a sword slicing the air towards him.

It cut.

The Butcher's scream filled the room and hurt the Warrior's ears... But the demon didn't die. The cut wasn't deep enough. Only a bleeding gash on his bloated throat.Apparently, the arteries of this beast lay deeper.

With a curse, the Warrior found himself lifted at the throat. The Butcher's eyes were almost glowing with rage. _The maggot in his fist would choke!_

Big mistake.

The sword flashed through the air again, this time aiming at the Butcher's arm.

There was a tremendous clang. The Warriors eyes narrowed a bit.  
_Dammit!_  
At lightning-speed, the Butcher had moved his cleaver to block the strike.

The Butcher's grin widened.

The choke-hold tightened.

But the Warrior had been in a situation like this before. He was not even phased.The Butcher was puzzled for a moment at the profound lack of struggling and suffocated screaming. The next moment, his vision exploded with stars and his head rung with pain. The Warrior's shield had collided at breakneck speed with his skull from the side. It had collided perfectly with the temple of the beast, and despite the thick skull, the Butcher now had a minor concussion.

The Butcher let go of his opponent and brought two, fat hands - one of them still with the cleaver in-hand - to his head as he moaned and growled. He swayed a moment on the spot, barely regaining his balance.

This opponent was no pushover.

The next second The Butcher's gut exploded with blood. A deep, clean cut brought him into a new world of pain.

A deafening roar filled the dungeon, echoing upon the walls and multiplying every second. Crimson-red blood flowed over the floor like a pumping river of death as the dark and terrible soul of a killer departed his corpse.Demons do not let go their lives easy.

The Warrior stood up straight and adjusted his collar.  
Looking down at the terrible creature whose blood now stained him twice as much as all the blood he had spilled so far, he showed no signs of relief. Not a smile broke his face.

In fact, he was not even winded.

"The spirits of the dead are now avenged" he proclaimed to the dark, raising his sword with one hand. It gleamed cold and blue in the dark, as if reeling with glee over it's latest kill.

Then, the Warrior bent down, took the terrible cleaver and left the Butcher to be food for rats and maggots.

Time passed, perhaps an hour. Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the halls again. The faint swishing of a cape over stony floor was audible to nobody but the cape's owner.

A tall, slender figure stepped into torchlight and over the giant, bloodied corpse on the floor.

Crouching next to the body, the figure traced a finger along the rim of the fatal wound.

"Magical…" said a dark, female voice, "and pretty decent handiwork. Can't have taken more than a couple of minutes".

Saying no more, the Rogue stood up, seized her bow more firmly and broke into an agile run, leaving in the same direction as the Warrior.

Elsewhere in on the same level of the dungeon, a Vizjerei mage looked up shortly from a book he was perusing. The library-room he stood in was littered with the charred corpses of at least fifteen demonic Scavengers. They had been burnt to crips, yet not a single sheet of paper had been as much as singed.

This was odd since paper lay spread, no doubt by demonic antics, absolutely everywhere.

The mage smiles faintly, chuckles and reads on, studying the ancient incantations.


End file.
